The Saccharine Winchester Gospel and other heaven
by dragonmage27
Summary: A collection of the prophet's unpublished drafts, involving tales of baby Winchesters and bad parenting and sappy moments in time that just didn't fit in a book about the Supernatural. Also, the prophet's unintentional chronicling of heaven and its stories. A collection of drabbles. Warnings and characters vary accordingly.
1. Milk

A/N: Written for my best friend who decided she didn't like Supernatural four years ago when I was first in love with it. And now she's in love with Destiel. Of course.

I promised her this set of drabbles, and she promises me art for each one I write.

x-posted to AO3 because though I love AO3 for the reading experience, I have yet to give up FFN which has been with me since the beginning. Oh sentiment.

* * *

It was well-understood that Dean Winchester was lactose intolerant.

Not lactose intolerant like he couldn't consume milk products or he'd need to camp out at the gas station bathroom for four hours, but that he did not tolerate milk. He despised the white liquid, and spent most of his childhood pouring his glass into Sammy's.

(Please, like Dean would actually allow his body to have an allergic reaction impeding him from his Chocolate Cream Pie.)

For the earlier part of their childhood/hunter-life, milk was hard to come by on the road. Milk did not keep well in the Impala, and the occasional chance at the closest Gas 'N' Go was usually replaced by root beer or just lots of bottles of water next to Sammy's car seat in the back.

(For a while, when Sammy was still getting weaned off mama milk, they had baby formula in the trunk next to the shotgun and axe, but little Sammy got sick and tired and wanted his mommy and threw up all over the back seat. John put his foot down, and that was the end of that.)

Once they started settling down a bit more, staying long-term in cheap motels and enrolling in school for weeks or months at a time, milk would grace the small fridge beside the bed. Most meals were at the local diner but John, although not the greatest hunter yet, was still an alright father, and remembered to order chock-full-of-calcium milk for his two sons. Dean remembered most of those nights switching his glass with Sammy's once his brother guzzled his down.

One time, Dean was about to run out to the store for some snacks, when Sam asked him to bring back a half-gallon of milk. Dean made a face. "You get it yourself."

Sam didn't look up from his writing but he replied, "I can't. I'm doing my homework."

"Oh yeah, when's it due?"

"Next Tuesday."

It was Monday. That little nerd. "Fine, but you're drinking the whole thing. Dad's about to come back any day from hunting and then we're leaving. Don't make me waste my money."

Sammy rolled his eyes. "Right, your hard-earned money that you took from the man at the bar."

"Won, Sammy. Won."

Sam didn't roll his eyes again, but Dean caught the little smile he tried to hide. "Why do you hate milk so much anyway?"

"I don't hate it, I'm just leaving more for you. You need it to grow big and strong."

Sam pouted. "You're still growing too."

Dean grinned and ruffled his little brother's hair before grabbing the keys off the table. "I'll always be bigger and stronger than you Sammy."

* * *

Nowadays they sit together at a diner, like the good old times when dad had gone hunting and they were sharing a dinner of spaghetti and omelettes, except Sam is on his laptop and Dean is downing a burger.

Sam is slouching in his seat, but he is still taller than Dean.


	2. Library

A/N: Please look at my AO3 account for the corresponding art to each chapter! My penname is the same on AO3. Also, I find it a lot easier to upload chapters on AO3, so chapters will be posted there first. I'm hoping to write one a day.

* * *

"Alright Dean, I'm heading over to Wrightsville to join up with Bobby. Money is in the fridge and the shotgun is under the bed. Butterfly knife?"

Dean smirked, "Under the pillow."

John nodded. "Alright. Stay out of trouble and watch over Sammy." He nodded his head towards Sam, who had passed out on the ratty motel couch with _A Tale of Two Cities_ nestled snuggly in his arms.

"Of course. I always take care of Sammy. Good hunting Dad," Dean called out. He settled down on the floor next to Sammy and started fiddling with more rock salt rounds. "Ah shit," he cursed out when one of the rounds was pierced and salt spilled out onto the floor.

Sam shifted at the sudden noise, and then jerked awake. He sat up with sleep still hazy in his eyes, but was alert, his shoulders tense. "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry for waking you. Everything's fine, go back to sleep. Or better yet, move to the bed. You'll break your back."

Sam shook his head, "No I'm good." He looked around the room. "Is dad gone already?" It was hard for Sammy to hide the disappointment in his eyes.

"Yeah, Uncle Bobby called him. Sounded urgent." Dean walked over to the fridge and pulled out a rolled up wad of cash. "No worries though. Dad left us plenty of money. Wanna head over to the diner for an early dinner? I want to try the cherry pie."

Dean helped pull Sammy up. "Come one, you can have waffles."

Sam looked out the window and saw that the sun had yet to set. "Wait! I want to go somewhere first."

Dean sighed, "Fine. Fine. Then pie."

They walked together down Main Street with Sam taking the lead, and when they took a left at the general store, Dean stopped. "Oh hell no. Sammy. We are _not_ going there."

Sam turned back to look at his brother. "Come on, Dean. I want to get there before they close up for the day."

"Sam, don't you have enough books already? The tale of two towns or something?"

"It's _A Tale of Two Cities_ Dean. By Charles Dickens, how can you not know?" Sam rolled his eyes. "And Uncle Bobby gave me it. I read it two times already. I want to see if they have _War of the Worlds_ by H.G. Wells."

"I gotta talk to Uncle Bobby about him encouraging," he waved his arms at Sam, "this."

"Reading?" Sammy gave him a look of disbelief. "Uncle Bobby loves it. Come on, let's go!" He reached to grab his older brother's hand, and though Dean was still the symbol of adamant refusal, he didn't pull away.

"I'm not going unless they have Penthouse."

"Dean! It's a library!" Sammy was scandalized.

Sam started walking and pull Dean along, but his older brother dug his heels into the concrete. "Dean, please?" Sammy pouted.

And like the time Sammy wanted to adopt a hamster for a week, or the Easter Egg Hunt Debacle (always all caps, and they don't talk about that, ever) or the local spelling bee (which he won by the way, Dean is very proud of Sammy's medal), Dean relented. "Alright, alright. But the librarian better be hot."


	3. Fury

The last hunt hadn't gone well. The monster was taken of, the civilians warned to keep their mouths shut to the authorities (the real ones), but a last minute effort of the monster to throw the hunters into a wall had broken John's arm. John was out of the action for another week or so, and he had been growing more and more restless; the cast Sam decorated with his A+ homework stickers did not help.

Bobby refused to offer John information on any hunt until he was fully healed, so John stayed at a rented cabin near the woods with his boys, and an uneasiness settled in on the family. Rather than waste time, John did what he thought was the next best step, training Sammy.

Which led to this mess.

"Goddammit, Sam! I told you, you need to concentrate on your shot. Dean could have shot these all down minutes ago!" Of the twelve cans they had lined up along the barren field, only five were down. "Have you been practicing like I told you?"

Sam swallowed. He wanted to tell his dad he was top of class again, that even though he was only in the ninth grade, he had figured out the monster's weakness as quickly as Uncle Bobby could have done, that he wasn't worthless. But he knew there was no use. John wouldn't listen.

"I can't believe I have such a useless son!"

Sam's eyes welled up, and he sent a heated glare towards his dad before running off. Dean, who had been sitting silently on a dead stump stood up and growled at his father. "Dad, inside. Now!"

Dean strode into their shared living space and looked around. Sammy hadn't come back. John walked in and rubbed a hand over his face. "I messed up, didn't I?"

"Yeah, dad. You did. Sammy's just in his first year of high school. This is hard on him and he's trying his best."

"His best is not enough, Dean. If we want any chance of killing the thing that killed your mother, Sam needs to get stronger." John rummaged through their fridge and pulled out a beer before taking a swig. His grip was tight on the bottle.

"I'll talk to Sammy. You can't just yell at him all the time."

"Yell at him? He's not going to get any better with you always mothering him, Dean!" John roared.

Dean swallowed hard but the anger boiled up. "Well someone has to!" He yelled back, turning furious eyes on his father. A silence fell upon the two, and Dean just shook his head. "Of course, you have nothing to say." He walked out and slammed the door shut.

Going around the cabin to the back where they parked the car, Dean saw a tuft of Sammy's hair in the backseat of the Impala. His brother was sleeping, curled up in the backseat, tear tracks dried on his face. Dean opened the door, and when Sammy didn't wake up, he took off his brown leather jacket and tucked it around his brother. Night's got cold quickly in Nevada.

When Dean heard footsteps behind him, he whipped around, but it was only his father. "If you're here to yell more, then I'm not interested, dad."

John shook his head. "Sit with me, Dean." He patted the hood of the Impala and settled himself on top. Dean kept his cautious gaze, but sat down beside his father. John chuckled quietly. "You never raise your voice at me unless it's for Sammy." He looked back at Sam. "You know, it used to be you back there in the backseat, and I would be the one to put my jacket around you and Sammy. Seems so long ago now." John took another long drink from his bottle. "I'm not a good father, am I?"

Dean raised his leg and lowered his head onto his knee. "I don't hate you dad. And neither does Sammy."

"I am sorry, Dean. For not being here when you boys need me. Sometimes I'm so busy being a hunter, I forget what it means to be a father." He sighed deeply, and weariness in his voice was heavier than the weight of the world. "It's been a long, long year." John reached around his other side and pulled out another beer. Dean's eyebrows jumped when John twisted off the cap and passed the bottle over to him.

"Really, dad?" Dean didn't let go of the bottle though.

John smiled. "If there is ever any freak miracle and you get to see your mother again, tell her I gave you this drink when you were twenty-one." He held out his own half-empty bottle at an angle towards Dean and Dean smiled and tapped his own bottle with his father's. "A man's first drink should be with his father."

"Thanks dad." It was clear in his voice. All was forgiven as it always was.

"Just don't tell Sammy. He's not getting his until he starts growing some damn facial hair."

Dean laughed. They had their fights but at the end of the day, they had their car and they had each other. And looking out while sitting on the hood of the Impala next to his father, with Sammy in the backseat and a bottle a beer in his hands, even though it was cloudy, Dean could almost make out the stars in the night sky.


	4. Laundry

For the longest time, Sam was banned from laundry duty.

It started out with a red volunteer shirt Sam received from his 'weekend-do-gooder activities'. That's what Dean called it. Sam called it 'giving back to the community'. "We hunt demons for them, Sam. I think that's giving back enough," Dean argued.

Dean was down to his last pair of clean underwear and Sam was out of socks. Dad went out hunting and Dean had some mild food poisoning so he commandeered the couch and wasn't moving unless dad returned with news or a burger. This left Sam to grab their duffle of dirty laundry and haul it over to the laundromat.

The soccer moms thought nine-year old Sammy adorable and offered him their detergent when he realized with mild horror that he had forgotten to bring it with him. "Where's your mommy, sweetheart? Aren't you a bit young to be running the house?"

Sam ducked his head shyly. "Mom's gone. My big brother's sick, so I have to do the wash." The mother's cooed at him, and then a devilish thought crossed his mind. "Oh no," he whispered. "I forgot my quarters."

"Oh dear! We can't have you walk all the way back. Pat dear, let's spare this poor boy some quarters shall we?"

And then he brought back the laundry all clean and fresh, but his moment of adolescent pride was short-lived, for everything, from socks to underwear to towels had been dyed pink.

It wasn't an isolated incident either, for Sammy, despite his straight A's, or perfect SAT scores, could not for the life of him, figure out laundry. The concept of sorting clothes went in ear and out the other, the faint scent of mildew a clear sign of Sam having gotten distracted by the library next door, and bleach was obviously the devil's invention to ruin mankind.

Let's not even mention gas station receipts. "Empty the pockets, Sam! Empty them!"

It was until after college when Sam proved his ability to sort the whites and colors ("How can you not see? Are you blind?"), and successfully add detergent to the machine ("No Sam, that's the wrong slot. No! Don't dump it there!") that Dean approved, and proceeded to shove all laundry duties to Sam. For the years of laundry slaving, he argued.

Sam took revenge with another dyed load. This time, only Dean's clothes and everything was a shit brown.


	5. Independence Day

A/N: Happy Independence Day!

* * *

It was July 4th, 1989 and Bobby Singer decided to throw a barbeque for the Winchesters. It wasn't that the party was _exclusively_ for the Winchesters, just that nobody else had decided to show up.

"Sorry Bobby, I'm heading down to Key West for my little Independence Day. Nothing wrong with your junkyard, but it's a junkyard. I want sexy ladies and Johnny Walker for my vacay and not metal scrap pieces. And this doesn't mean I forgive you, but thanks for the invite. Sorry again." Rufus called, not too apologetically.

John Winchester had doubts about going as well, but he looked into the pleading eyes of Sam and Dean, and then remembered what Bobby said: "Mary may be gone, but you do understand that you're allowed to be happy. Idjit." So late afternoon on Freedom Day found the Impala driving down the road in South Dakota to Bobby's house.

Bobby met them at the entrance to the scrapyard. "Bill Harvelle's out hunting, you'd think these monsters would take a break on a national holiday, you know? So Ellen's a bit tied up at the Roadhouse; she and Jo ain't coming." He turned to Sam and Dean who were standing by the Impala. "Sorry boys, no cute lady for you today."

They just scrunched up their noses. Bobby grinned, they were still at the girls-got-cooties stage probably. "Alright run over to the kitchen will you? I made some lemonade. Ice is where it always is. I got to talk to your father for a bit."

Watching his boys race each other inside the house, John asked, "What is it, Bobby?"

"Oh nothing. I just wanted the boys out of the way so they don't see me bully you into cleaning the grill," Bobby grinned. "Also, look at this." He led John around the house to an area cleared up of cars, and sitting in the middle was a pile of fireworks.

John stopped. "Bobby," he warned.

Bobby grinned. "Live a little, Johnny boy. When was the last time your boys saw fireworks?" At John's shamed silence, Bobby shook his head. "Never? Really, for this, you are definitely scrubbing out the grill. Be done by six alright? My lamb chops are waiting for me."

John sighed. "You better watch the Sam and Dean then."

"I'll grab you a beer."

And two minutes later Bobby walked back with two beers in hand and a bemused smile. "Your boys are up to something."

John was scrubbing the grill so he just grunted when Bobby settled the bottle beside him, "What?"

"They've barricaded the kitchen. Dragged out a case of beer-for us I presume, that's what you're drinking-and all my prepped food. Meats on ice though, smart boys. They stuck a sign on the kitchen door saying, 'KEEP OUT. ROCK SALT AND SHOTGUNS AWAIT' scrawled out with my red marker."

"You have no ghosts in your house. What are they doing?" John paused.

"Who knows?" Bobby shrugged. "Think I heard some chopping in there."

John shifted uncomfortably. "This is a bad idea. You're not worried?"

"Your boys handles knives better than I did at that age. You trust them to kill monsters but not if they're doing it at a cutting board? Who raised you, Hippocrates?"

And then the two of them started chuckling, and it evolved into loud laughter; it really wasn't a funny joke, but it was a hunter thing, and a hunter's paranoia and neither of them has gotten a good laugh in a very long time.

"Alright you done? Gonna grab my meats. You want a steak or a burger like your boys? Think I got some wings marinating in the fridge too." Bobby started walking towards the house. "I'll see what the boys are up to. Think they should be done salting and burning that ghost's bones by now."

Right before Bobby stepped into the shade of his house, John called out. "Bobby. Thank you for this. I know this is for Sam and Dean. They haven't had a day like this in forever. This means a lot."

Bobby pointed his beer accusingly at him. "No chick flick moments, idjit."

So that's where Dean got it from.

Bobby walked inside just as little five-year-old Sammy came running out of the kitchen with a brown thing in a pan. "Here Uncle Bobby! Dean and I made apple pie! Can you bake it for us?"

Uncle Bobby looked down at the pie he was holding. The dough was kneaded unevenly, and he could see brown sugar still clinging to the plain flour. Under the upper crust (he couldn't tell if they were aiming for a circular shaped crust or woven strips, it looked like neither-actually looked like a shapeshifter had accidentally thrown up on their pie), he could see that even though they chopped the apples into perfect slices, they forgot to core the apple so now stems and seeds were extra ingredients.

Still holding the pie with one hand, Bobby bent lower to ruffle Sam's hair. "Alright kiddo. While I put this in the oven, why don't you and Dean go help your dad. Tell him how you want your burgers. Bring the lemonade with you, and don't run and tire yourselves out. I got a surprise for you boys tonight."

Sammy nodded and ran off. Dean stood by the door silently watching Bobby, or particularly, the pie in his hand.

Bobby gave him the slightest nod and smile. Dean was always the more cautious one. "Save your stomach Dean, I'm sure this pie will be delicious."

Dean smiled wide, grabbed the lemonade pitcher and chased off after his brother.


	6. Apple Pie

A/N: I'm going to "Salute to Supernatural" in New Jersey in August. Super excited! Misha Collins! Anyone else going? (Also, this is the missing pie scene from last chapter)

* * *

Sam grabbed two relatively clean glasses and handed it over to Dean, who filled it with ice and lemonade. Sam started looking around the house with eyes full of wonder.

"What's up Sammy? Not like you haven't seen Uncle Bobby's house before."

Sam pulled his little body up onto a chair and accepted the glass. "Dad doesn't seem happy to be here. I don't want him to be mad at Uncle Bobby. If he does, he won't leave us here with Uncle Bobby anymore. I like it here."

Dean took Sammy's hand. "Don't worry. That'll never happen. Just drink your lemonade okay?"

Sam nodded, and took a sip. He smiled brightly. "Uncle Bobby makes the best lemonade!"

"Well that's because Uncle Bobby makes it fresh from real lemons. I saw him one time. I'll bet he has more lemons in the fridge." Dean pulled open the door, and slid out the fruits. "Oh! Uncle Bobby does have everything. Look at all these apples!"

Sam slid off his seat. "Let me see!" He eyed the apples and the jumped up slightly to tug at his big brother's sleeve. "I know! I know! Dean! We can make apple pie for Uncle Bobby and dad! Then they won't be mad and we can keep coming!"

Dean picked up one of the apples and peered at the sticker. "Hmm, Red Delicious."

Sammy blinked. "Are these the right apples?"

Dean thought long and hard. "It has to be! These are delicious apples. The label says so."

"Do you know how to make apple pie, Dean?" Sam bit his lip because he knew he should think things through before doing it. Dad always told him that.

"Of course I do Sammy! I know everything." Dean thumps himself once in the chest. "Remember that cooking show you fell asleep to one time? Last Thanksgiving. They were making pie."

"Oh I remember! But I think the apples were green."

Dean shook his head. "No, you must have remembered differently. The pie that comes out isn't green, silly. Let's use these apples. Dad's going to be so surprised!"

Sammy giggled, he loved it when Dean was excited.

"Alright Sammy, let's start moving everything outside, so Uncle Bobby and Dad don't come in. You move the light stuff first. I'm going to write a 'Keep Out' sign."

They worked together fast as always, and soon they were ready to start cooking with Dean in command. "We need flour! And eggs! Sugar! No, take that sugar, Sammy. It's brown. The dough is always brown."

Sammy ran around grabbing this and that and started hazardly throwing everything together. Unsurprisingly, the half-bag of flour they dumped in was unproportional with the water and eggs. Sammy started mixing, but there was not enough wet ingredients for the dough to form. "Dean, it's not working" Sammy whispered.

Dean walked over with a whole stick of butter and tossed it in. Sam's eyes were starting to well up and Dean couldn't have that. "Don't cry Sammy. We just need to make it more wet. Oh! Let's see here. Apple Cider Vinegar. Let's add that! I bet it'll make our pie taste better and more like apples!"

With the extra addition, Sam started happily kneading the dough under the careful watch of Chef Dean. Dean himself started taking the apples from the fridge.

"How are you making the apples, Dean?"

"I was thinking, you know what organic food is?"

"No? Organic," Sam repeats, mouthing his way around the word. It sounded untasty. He wrinkled his nose.

"I remember watching this show about organic food. It's supposed to be good for people, and since Uncle Bobby and dad are super old, we should make it good for them!"

"But what is it?"

"Oh, it's when everything is from nature."

Sammy grinned. "So if we use the whole apple with the stem and seeds, it'll be super organic!"

"Right you are, Sammy! Now go finish up the dough and find me a baking pan." Dean grabbed the apples, ran them under the tap for about two seconds (no Dean) and started chopping the apples with the ease of a seasoned chef. Dad's training came in handy sometimes for more than hunting apparently.

"Alright Sammy, ready?"

"Ready!"

"Let's build us an apple pie."

* * *

"Dad! Dad!" Dean ran towards their dad with a steaming slice of apple pie and vanilla ice cream on the side.

(Fun fact: Bobby Singer hated vanilla ice cream. But he kept it in the fridge just in case John Winchester suddenly dropped his boys off.)

Sam was walking slower with Bobby each holding their own plate, but he called out, "Dean and I made it. It's super organic!"

They settled down on the random crates and boxes placed around the barbeque grill, and got ready to dig into dessert. Empty paper plates that once held burgers and steaks had been disposed of, and a small (quite large actually) collection of beer bottles had accumulated. Sam and Dean had moved on from lemonade to soda pop, not a drink Bobby endorsed, but Dean pointed to the liquor store Bobby kept next to his collection of car tires, and Bobby just rubbed his face and let the boys have at the soda.

The sun was down to its final stretch and the sky blazed a crimson orange. With the sun no longer beating down on their backs, the warm air of July was just the proper amount of suffocating comfort. The lingering scent of grilled meat wafted with the occasional breeze and time seemed to slow down in that instant.

"How does it taste dad?" Dean asked eagerly, with Sam at his side, staring with equally earnest eyes.

John startled upon realization that even Bobby had yet to take his first bite, and everyone was waiting on him. "Well let me try it. It looks quite good. It tastes," he took a rather large bite, and then after two slow chews, froze. His eyes darted around, and when he caught Bobby's stern gaze, he swallowed everything. Apple stem and all. "Very good. Wow. Organic. Very fresh. I can even taste the earth."

He probably did.

"Really dad?" Sam's eyes were wide.

"Yes," John nodded. "Good job boys."

Sam and Dean beamed. Dean grinned wide. "Now you, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby sweated a little. "Me too? Why thank you Dean." He took a large topping of ice cream he didn't even like with the pie and put it in his mouth. With minimal chewing, he swallowed. "Wow! It's delicious. Natural Martha Stewarts, your boys John. Didn't know you had it in you, Sam. Dean."

The sun had set by then, but the bright smiles on both Sam and Dean's faces would light up many days to come for both John and Bobby.

Dean dug his fork into his slice. "I'm going to try it too now!"

"Hold it right there!" Bobby called. Dean froze. "We had your surprise, now it's time for you to see mine. Come on boys, we're gonna light this night on fire."

That night, the fireworks dancing across the sky never seemed to stop. Sam and Dean laid down on the grass and dirt, holding each others small hands and stared at the floating lights they'd never seen before. Though the fireworks held the boys enraptured, the only thing John and Bobby could see that night was the sheer happiness on the faces of their boys.

* * *

A/N: Apple pie is usually made from Granny Smith apples in case you didn't catch that. So the boys messed up there too.


	7. Wonder Wheel

I really shouldn't make any promises about updating, because uh, Murphy's Law. I've been working on a high school AU, Seven Miles to the Ferris Wheel, so if for any reason you actually enjoy my writing, you can go check that out? Art for it can be found at (viimiles. tumblr. com)

I literally wrote this out in a gChat, and then decided, okay this counts as a drabble. Someone also pointed out that I listed Castiel as a character, but haven't written him yet, so here we are

* * *

"Come on Dean, we're in Coney Island. We gotta try the rides. How about the Cyclone?" Sam pointed at the wooden death machine, and Dean's eyes bugged out.  
"How about no, Sam?"  
Sam rolled his eyes. "Chicken."  
"Bitch."  
"Well here are tickets anyway, jerk. At least go on the Wonder Wheel, it's only a ferris wheel. Should be safe enough for you." And then he sauntered off, leaving Dean with costly tickets that was firstly a waste to buy, but a bigger waste to not use, and an angel confused by what just went down.

Dean sighed, "Alright come on Cas. Let's go on the Wonder Wheel and laugh at Sam when the Cyclone stops midway in the air."

The man collecting tickets had a thick Brooklyn accent, so when he took their tickets and asked roughly, "Stationary or Swinging?" it didn't sound anything like that.  
Dean just said, "What?" and the man pointed him rudely towards one line and turned to collect tickets from the couple behind them. The line moved relatively fast, as him and Cas stood in silence, while the sounds of happy couples and terrified teens screaming around them.

The car that arrived for them was red, and Dean wondered what the difference was between the colored cars-passengers from the other line only got on the white ones. His thoughts disappeared when he sat stiffly in the front seats, with Cas sitting just as stiff beside him. Cas however, was not fraught with fear, it was just his natural disposition to sit like there was something up his ass.

Alright, so maybe Dean was being a bit mean, but it was only because the line at Nathan's was ridiculous. Come on, a man wants his hot dog, and he wants it now!

The car started moving, and Dean jostled against Cas as they rose. Cas glanced down at the busy beach, vibrant boardwalk, and the dilapidated buildings that surrounded them. Coney Island had never regained the color it used to possess, but it was a sight to be seen. "This is quite...peaceful," he commented.

They ascended slowly, the higher they rose, the tighter Dean clenched his fists. He sent a furtive glance towards Castiel, but the angel did not seem to notice or care about his distress.

His fear reached its pinnacle when he realized what the attendant meant when he said "swinging". The colored car surged forward on its wheels and swung violently forwards and back, a cacophony of scraping metal thundering in Dean's ears. It was a miracle he could hear that over the sound of his heavily beating heart.

Suddenly, Cas's voice broke him out of his fear. "Dean, it's over." The angel's voice was like his anchor, drawing him back to reality. The violent swinging of their car had stopped, and it was once again serenely bringing them to the face of Coney Island. "Look at Sam," Cas murmured.

Dean laughed at the fear on Sam's face while aboard the Cyclone of Rollercoaster Death, but his elated joy was cut short, as the Wonder Wheel had two points of swinging, and they had just reached their second one.

This time, without thinking, Dean grabbed for his angel's hand, and to his surprise, Cas did not pull away. The angel, for all being a cosmic being, had a warm, smooth hand that he gripped tightly, with his eyes screwed shut, while the swinging motion moved past the car and into his stomach. Cas remained his anchor, and soon the second storm was over.

Their car was descending back to solid ground, and Dean let out a sigh of relief. He did not let go of Cas's hand and ignored the smirks of the people watching them as their car swung into view.

And then as his car continued with the same momentum around the wheel, and those smirks grew larger, he groaned loudly. There were two rounds on this ferris wheel.  
Cas turned his face, and Dean blinked at their distance (or lackthereof). Had they always been sitting his close together?

Cas spoke directly in his ear, his deep voice resonating deep in Dean's chest, "It's okay, Dean."  
Dean held onto Cas's hand, and onto his voice, and burrowed his face into the crook of Cas's neck. Somehow, the second time around, it wasn't as scary.

* * *

When they got off the ferris wheel, Sam went up to them, and Dean laughed at Sam's face which was a fond shade of green. "How was it Sammy?" he teased.  
Sammy groused, "Worse than fighting a wendigo. How was the Wonder Wheel? Did you scream like a baby?"  
Dean scoffed, "Like I was scared at all. It was nothing. I'm not a wimp!"

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to the angel, "How about you Cas? Did you enjoy it?"  
Cas nodded, "It was pleasant." And then he had the look on his face that told Dean he was about to say something he shouldn't but had no idea of its reprecussions. "And it was very comfortable holding Dean's hand the entire time."

* * *

Being from Brooklyn, I insist that everyone who visits Coney Island must ride the Wonder Wheel at least once. (However, it's been creaking a lot more than when I was younger. Enjoy with caution.)


End file.
